


Yearn to Be

by antivanelf (macabreromansu)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Feelings, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9436391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabreromansu/pseuds/antivanelf
Summary: To yearn to be more than you are and not just different. Revas Lavellan is gripped by old, intense feelings whilst on guard in a human town.





	

**Author's Note:**

> [Revas Lavellan](http://vonuberwald.tumblr.com/post/156254247278/revas-lavellan-heres-my-genderfluid-baby-his)
> 
> Written first thing in the morning, without my glasses on, because I had this in my head all night, damnit. So if there are typos or weird tense changes in places, this is why. Revas gives me a lot of Feelings and this is me trying my hardest to express them.
> 
> [If you liked it, please reblog!](http://vonuberwald.tumblr.com/post/156258864168/yearn-to-be-gen)
> 
>  
> 
>  

It begins again with a sudden, urgent stab of _want_ , his breath snatched from him just as his attention is stolen by the _shemlen_ woman in rich furs and expensive silks. 

He only just manages to stay out of sight as he was told to by the hunter in charge of their little group, barely remembering to keep a part of his focus on her guards, rough-looking and mean, for all of their shiny, engraved armour. There’s a carriage, the one the woman descended from and he takes in the vibrant colours of that too, the gilding on the edges, the fabric of the curtains in the tiny window. The coat of arms on the side features lions and Revas distantly remembers that that means _Orlesians,_ almost as bad as Tevinter. He shrinks back a little further into the weak shadows of the alley as he watches. 

If Hanin had known there would be noble foreigners in the town, they wouldn’t have come, he thought, his brow creased in indecision. He certainly wouldn’t have brought Revas, the runt, the magpie who wanted things he could never have, things he could never _be._

The noblewoman has paused and is talking at length to one of the bodyguards, the fceless man or woman under the plate strictly to attention, one hand raised to their heart. Revas’ eyes roam over her quickly, as if afraid the mere weight of his gaze would alert them to his presence if he rested them too long in any one place. He takes in her elegantly coiffed hair underneath a small fur hat, the fall of her earrings against her neck. He absently reaches up to his own ear, to the small carved arrow that drops from his lobe there. The last ever present from his father, a blessing of sorts, where his mother would have scorned him for wanting such a thing. 

Revas knows that she does anyway. He hadn’t been born a mage, after all. A son of two mages, one of them the Keeper, at that, and not a lick of magic. They’d had to ask for one from outside of their clan, and while Mahanon is nice enough to him, Revas can still feel the weight of Deshanna’s disappointment whenever he’s reminded that he will never be good enough.

There’s a clatter of steel and he’s brought back to the present at the sight of the woman and one her guards moving away from the carriage, thankfully not going into the shop Hanin and the others had gone into. He takes the opportunity to dart into the building and grab Enansal’s attention whilst the leader of the band is focused on dealing with the scowling  _shem_ running the shop. A quick whispered warning and he’s back outside, watching and waiting. 

He is joined ten minutes later by the others, the business concluded. He’s given a pack of the bartered goods to carry and they’re on the way back to the clan, as quickly as they can without attracting undue attention. Even as he instinctively follows the others in the shifting evening shadows of the landscape, his thoughts keep returning to the sweep of long silks, the elegance of a stray curl and the drape of heavy gold against skin. He thinks of the pot of rouge at the bottom his pack he doesn’t dare to leave in the aravel he shares with his mother, the contrast of it against his own skin when he’d once chanced to try it, a rounded, pitted shard of polished metal his only mirror.

Later, in the dubious privacy of the Keeper’s aravel, he lies on his pallet whilst Deshanna is in conference with the _hahren_ and her First about the upcoming Conclave. Staring at the ceiling of the structure with unseeing eyes, he does the same thing he does every night and tries to will away the dull ache deep in his chest. As every night, he falls asleep, unsuccessful.


End file.
